My son is 17. He has decided to take his earnings and go to Edmonton for the week before Christmas. If we are lucky, he will and back here at YYZ late Christmas eve/ in the wee hours of Christmas morning.

I get it. Christmas is hateful. Teenagers most want to play amongst themselves from about 17-20 and don’t want to be bothered with family pressures to be happy for the holidays. Teenagers, it seems, also universally despise whatever they get for Christmas, regardless of how hard we work to get something we think they will like. So, not having to endure their sullen crap is in a way a blessing, seeing as many of us still have to face the pressure from our elder families to behave as though we like each other. Every Christmas I have to pretend, for example, that my in-laws don’t think I’m the nasty slut who ruined their son’s precious potential. And I can look forward to receiving another cat themed piece of kitsch — because after 22 years the depth of their knowledge of me still extends no further than, “she likes cats.”

OK… so if I could run away from home for the holidays that would be excellent. Wish I could join the kid.

That said, for many years, the kid was my greatest joy at Christmas. Now he’ll be away, and my greatest joy will be missing. I won’t have him around a corner to share a sly witticism with.

Please, please, universe; don’t let it turn out to be a disastrous mistake to be letting him go on this adventure to the suburbs of Edmonton with my least favourite of his friends. Please, please, universe. Let that mum out there be able to prevent them from sneaking out in the car and smashing themselves to kingdom come. Please, please send my boy back to me happier and wiser for having taken his trip.

And please, please, universe… send him back to me safe and sound, without an albatross around his neck.